


In These Quiet Spaces

by dasedandconfuzed



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, relationships are complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9067042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasedandconfuzed/pseuds/dasedandconfuzed
Summary: [It’s no use, he’s growing apart, the seams of his body can’t hold everyone together anymore.]Yuri, Yuuri, and Viktor settle into a weird détente when Viktor comes back, but then puberty strikes like a hammer and Yuri is incapable of staying Yuuri's rival.





	1. Agape

 ~*~

 

 _I had a dream that you were mine_  
_I’ve had that dream a thousand times_  
_A thousand times, a thousand times  
_ _I’ve had that dream a thousand times_

 

~*~

 

The first few weeks after the Grand Prix were peaceful.

Or, they were as peaceful as they could get.

In the mania of press conferences and training sessions and Skype calls, the weeks passed by quickly.

The Grand Prix had finally cemented Yuri’s skating style, something straddling artistry, prepubescent flexibility, and sheer athletic prowess. While it erred too closely to sixteen-year old Viktor Nikiforov to placate an inner twelve-year old tired of being compared to _that_ loser, Yuri figured he would take it. He only had so long before he grew too tall and wide to manage skating like it ever again. 

The Grand Prix also meant that everyone was looking at Yuri with something flinty in their eyes. 

 _You told me I was going to be the next Viktor Nikiforov,_ Yuuri would think, feet pulled apart into a perfect line as he watched people fill in the rink, _but you’re all going to kill yourselves being the next Yuri Plisetsky._

He felt nothing thinking this, had no time to name an emotion for this revelation, because Viktor would stumble into the rink every day, scant minutes after Yuri had begun stretching, as if he had any time to waste.

“Yurio!” Viktor would call out from across the rink. Every day. If he thought he would eventually inspire the other skaters to use it, then he underestimated the clout Yuri now commanded. “Here already? Do you want so badly to beat me? To beat Yuuri?”

“Shut it, old man!”

 

~*~

 

There was a viewing party for the Japanese National Championships.

Normally, no one would bother. Yakov’s skaters already barely managed their neuroses skating against Viktor, no need to disturb the time bombs with more competition, but Yuuri was _more_ competition. Surprisingly, he was agreeable competition—unfailingly polite, modest to a fault. It was difficult to feel abject misery when he pulled a SP score that was close to displacing Yuri’s new record. Yuri had been too-caught up in realizing _Oh_ , Champion Yuuri was still the same as Grand Prix Loser Yuuri.

On screen, Yuuri was stammering out something to the 2nd place skater, probably something polite and nonsensical and completely detached from how Minami Kenjirou's face was as red as that bright streak in his hair.  _Does he never notice anything around him?_

“What a loser,” Yuri said out loud.

“Be nice, Yurio,” Viktor called from his position, dead-center in front of the crowd. “Yuuri can beat you in March.”

Yuri twitched. “I already beat that pig,” he tried to make it sound casual, but half the room turned towards him with wariness, “I’ll do it again.”

Alexei, a thirteen-year old who entered Yakov’s club too late to know the sheer asshole that was Viktor Nikiforov Five-Time World Champion, piped in, “Or you’ll beat both of them Viktor!”

Viktor’s voice was dripping honey when he answered but there was something sharp in it, “We’ll see.”

_Well, Viktor Nikiforov isn’t dead after all._

 

~*~

 

Yuri was a machine, he didn’t need to exert half the effort he did to beat a man in his late-twenties who decided he could, after _months_ of inactivity, launch a comeback in two weeks. Even if Viktor didn’t devote all his free time to preparing his apartment for Yuuri’s move (which, with what visa, Yuri had no idea, he was absolutely certain Viktor was bribing someone in the consulate to okay someone who wasn’t a student, wasn’t a worker, and wasn’t—for all those gold bands promised— _actually_ a spouse) and secretly planning a wedding Yuuri didn’t know about, Yuri could have beaten him easily. 

But if Yuri let up his regime, his body would rebel, would finally lapse into puberty and he’d be damned if he let that happen in the middle of a season.

Then Russian Nationals came and Yuri Plisetsky found himself kissing a gold medal as Viktor Nikiforov was kissing a gold ring and… wasn’t that unnerving?

 

~*~

 

Viktor was simultaneously the most intelligent man in figure skating and the least.

He was smart in a deceptive way. Even before Yuri met him he knew that the Viktor who had his own training sessions and private tutors was more of a finely-tuned blade than the Figure Skating Federation of Russia would have preferred. At first, Yuri had been impressed—when Viktor was young and his innate skill wasn’t enough to make up the experience gap, his unerring ability to drive his older, more-experienced competitors to literal shakes cinched him a gold medal.

And then Viktor got older, kept winning like it was nothing, and decided to use all that grey matter to see how far he could push before someone pushed back. 

Skating with unbound, meter-long hair for years? Only Viktor.

Bad-mouthing the former Russian champion after he retired? Only Viktor.

Complaining that  _he_ wasn't being overscored, but everyone else was? Still, only Viktor.

It was annoying and petty, but everyone dealt with Viktor Nikiforov because he knew how and when to simper and placate. 

Standing on the podium, Yuri finally placed what unnerved him about Viktor’s comeback. 

His smile was fake—they were always fake—but there was a gleam of something—pride? contentment?—when he glanced up at Yuuri. 

It was relief.

A photographer had the uncanny skill to capture the exact moment Yuri’s mouth fell open into a gape. 

_Fucker didn’t even try._

For all his intelligence, Viktor was an idiot. 

No photographer had the foresight to monitor Yuuri’s face, to capture the exact moment Viktor turned back to the crowd with his fake-ass smile and Yuuri’s gaze skittered back to Viktor, their separation mapped in ten vertical centimeters. The clench of his jaw was so minute that only someone practiced in the art of noticing Yuuri would notice. 

There were twenty vertical centimeters between him and Yuuri. There was a half-centimeter difference between happy Yuuri and upset Yuuri. 

Yuri noticed.

He always noticed Yuuri, even when Viktor didn’t. 

 

~*~

 

Two weeks into the definitive end of Viktor Nikiforov’s chokehold on men’s figure skating, Viktor finally used what little emotional intelligence he had to find Yuri.

“Yu~ri~o,” Viktor moaned, poking at Yuri with each syllable. “Yu~ri~o, what did I do wrong?”

Yuri’s fist wrapped around Viktor’s index finger. When he released it, Viktor held it to his heart in exaggerated remorse.

“You’re asking _me_ that?”

Viktor nodded, his eyes still comically huge.

“You thought you were clever,” Yuri said, “thought no one would figure it out.” 

Viktor had the nerve to stay silent.

“Did I even win at nationals? Or were you holding back then too?”

At least Viktor lost the puppy-dog eyes when he answered. “No, I could have spent more time at the rink.” 

Everyone had suspected, no one could launch a successful comeback with as little rink time as Viktor put in, but to hear it out loud... Yuri would sell that medal. He’d make a killing off it.

“I only had two weeks,” Viktor continued, “the Nationals loss was expected, I’ve been out for so long. I spent more time training with Yuuri here, but I was focused more on coaching him to a gold medal than on getting my own. In a way, his victory was unfair...” 

The thought of how much money Yuri would make off of his fraudulent gold medal was enough to keep him from strangling Viktor. His voice was surprisingly cool when he responded, “And you thought Yuuri would appreciate you dropping a gold medal in his lap?”

Viktor shrugged, “It meant so much to him.”

 _You never understood him_ , Yuri wanted to say, _why would you think he was that weak?_

He said the last part out loud. He didn’t mean to—he couldn’t spend his entire life as their couple’s counselor—but Yuri relished seeing that blow play out on Viktor’s face.

“I don’t think he’s weak,” Viktor finally said, “but I don’t want him to see me serious, serious at winning.” 

Viktor kept talking, uncertain and soft, “I don’t want him to see that I wasn’t,” he paused to search for the words, “beautiful when I competed.”

Yuri's temple was throbbing. Years, _years_ of psychologically destroying his competition, of such blasé cruelty. Then—worse—the negligence when no one was left to challenge him, the public moping about no one being as good as him, as if the entire skating world weren't killing themselves to meet that standard, weren't killing themselves for Viktor to find something in them worth considering, and he only felt remorse because of it _now_? _It’s not even remorse_ , Yuri corrected, _he just doesn’t want_ Yuuri _to see who he really is._

Wasn’t that a slap in the face? At least Giacometti and Bin seemed relatively sane when they retired, but Yuri still had nightmares of the former American champion shattering his leg and being shunted into an early retirement trying to land Viktor's flip. And who knew what Georgi could have been had he not shared a rink and age-group with Viktor Nikiforov. 

Yuri's temper rose when Viktor turned away, possibly to speculate about how many lives he'd ruined, but most likely to think about Yuuri crying over un-beautiful Viktor Nikiforov, Five-Time World Champion.

He snorted, the sound drawing Viktor back to him. _As if Y_ _uuri ever cared that you're an asshole._

“Yuuri’s seen it. When you couldn’t even recognize him as competition.” 

Viktor didn’t wince, his face was too trained for something so _un_ - _beautiful_ , but something in him seemed to recoil. If he was searching for words, Yuri didn’t give him the chance to respond. “He wants competition you, even for a little while.” 

Yuri closed his eyes, summoning the memory of Yuuri skating in their rink at night. His ballet teacher had called in a favor with Lilia who called in a favor with Yakov, and between the three had hashed out an agreement that Yuuri could use the rink any time of day. (And _oh,_ wouldn’t Yuri have killed to know what made Yakov sputter at the thought of the two retired ballerinas talking to each other.) Yuri had similarly taken advantage of the agreement, skating with Yuuri on those long, dark nights. 

Sometimes they were playful, throwing out their best moves to surprise the other. Sometimes they were silent, skating in tandem with only the _whoosh_ of their blades on ice to betray their presence. It reminded Yuri of Hasetsu, that week before the competition. Except Viktor wasn’t there.

He’d never felt so happy.

But he remembered Yuuri a day after they returned from Worlds. All the older skaters were celebrating their fleeting freedom with booze and food, but Yuuri had politely declined, citing how easily he gained weight. Yuri, who had neither the disposable income nor the will to consume all of those fat-laden calories, simply ground out “fuck no”. Viktor had stayed behind, intent on making friends with his rinkmates after all these years.

Yuri went to the rink. Unsurprisingly, he found Yuuri there, skating solemnly before he held his entire body taut, and lapped the rink, accelerating—faster, faster—until he launched himself mid-air. 

A lutz. 

An attempt. 

He crashed to the ground and Yuri had to force himself to only walk to him. “ _Baka!_ ” he had spat in Japanese, heart caught in his throat, “doing that alone! Did you lose your mind?” When Yuuri stood, a wince betraying a bruise Yuri hoped would remind him to never be so reckless again, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Why are you even trying that? No one here can land one, who’s supposed to teach you?”

Yuuri had laughed, soft and self-deprecating. “I wasn’t really thinking”—as if Yuri hadn’t guessed that—“I just wanted to upgrade my moves.”

“Why? Is there a medal better than gold?”

Yuuri’s face fell and, _oh,_ Yuri knew what this was about.

Viktor _fucking_ Nikiforov was still staring at him and it spilled out of Yuri’s mouth easily. “Yuuri is your true love and an artist and all that nonsense you spout to every journalist, but he’s also an athlete, and as much as he wants _you—”_ he looked Viktor up and down, a reminder that there were at least two people who knew how high Viktor had reached “—he’s still that idiot who wants you to look at him as serious competition.”

Yuri felt bare when Viktor looked at him again. “You’re not just talking about Yuuri.”

So what if the air rushed out of his lungs? None of this was news for Viktor. 

“ _Regardless_. Yuuri’s not going to be happy until it happens and you’re not going to be happy until Yuuri’s happy. And _no one_ wants to watch these competitions wondering if you’re finally going to kick it the next time you do a quad flip, so you might as well figure this out soon.”

Yuri walked out of the locker room, but he threw over his shoulder, “Also, fuck you for thinking you had to tone it down to beat Yuuri and me.”

Viktor's voice found him, “Yes, but I didn’t even need to try to beat you those last two times.”

 

~*~

 

Viktor and Yuuri didn't show up to practice the next three days.

Yakov was apoplectic every morning Viktor (and Yuuri) didn’t show up. The first day, Yuri had stretched to visions of Yuuri and Viktor sobbing over each other. The second day, he was warming up in the rink and decided, _Well, maybe they’re_ actually _talking to each other about this_. The third day was gratuitous, and Yuri mock vomited as everyone speculated about the make-up sex. 

“His stamina _is_ absurd,” Mila laughed within a crowd of second-rate skaters. Yuri had adamantly set himself off to the side and was composing a long text to Beka about his rink's sheer unprofessionalism, but Mila's grin grew feral when she saw him. "Yurio~!" she cooed into his ear, suddenly draped over him. “I forgot!”—she didn’t—“You stayed in his hot springs—tell me, what’s he packing? Will Viktor be limping in or wheeled in?”

He flung his cell phone at her face. She dodged, practically skipping onto the ice, her laughter trailing.

When the duo returned, they were practically glowing. Yuri shut out the whispers of sex glow and kept to himself.

Throughout the day, he would peak at Viktor. He looked better, he looked determined. Yakov also was watching Yuuri more, perhaps preparing to take over aspects of Viktor's coaching duties. Inwardly, Yuri breathed a sigh of relief—he wasn’t going to play couple's counselor one more time. 

Yuuri found him in the locker room, because it was apparently where everyone had these types of conversations. Yuri had been too caught up in the shine of Yuuri’s eyes to snark at him.

“Yura,” Yuuri said. 

 _Of course_ , of course Yuuri discovered Russian diminutives during that three-day fuck session. Yuri looked down, trying to preoccupy himself with his battered feet instead of the warmth that spread across his cheeks.

“Thank you for talking with Viktor.”

“’s’nothing.” It came out too quickly so Yuri took his time pulling on his socks and slipping on his shoes. “It was an insult to _both_ of us.”

Yuuri smiled, open and knowing, He walked in front of Yuri to pull him up and Yuri accepted his hand easily, smiled easily too.

Yuuri always had this effect on people.

 

~*~

 

“He sounds like your best friend,” Beka said over Skype. 

Yuri had been lounging against a mountain of pillows, but he snapped up fast enough to disturb Sasha, who sprung off the bed. “What? No!” He scoffed, crossed his legs, and settled in front of the videocamera. “ _You’re_ my best friend, obviously.”

Beka’s face was always serious, and Yuri was just beginning to learn his expressions, but he could already puzzle out it was pleasure that warmed Beka’s eyes. Yuri was new to friendship, had been too absorbed with his family and skating, but he felt his cheeks flush at Beka’s obvious happiness.

Yuri liked how straight-forward Beka was, liked how he knew to never leave his emotions up to interpretation, liked how Beka responded, “You’re my best friend, too.”

 _I’m like a teenager on a date,_ Yuri thought, but the parallel was unsettling. _No,_ he amended, _this is more important_. 

“What is Yuuri Katsuki to you?” 

Yuri snapped out of his thoughts. “Yuuri? My rival.”

Beka hummed.

“Well, not just my rival,” Yuri admitted. “I guess he’s my friend.” Beka was looking at him too intently. “It’s complicated. We have the same name. We’re always competing against each other. But it’s not like that—we get each other.”

They did. They did get each other. They could push each other to new heights. They would never hold back against each other.

“Look—I’ve been following his career for a while, it’s hard not to, we share the same name. And I liked his skating. I—” It was a credit to their friendship that Yuri was even saying this. “I admired him. Long before anyone took him seriously. Long before anyone took me seriously.” 

Yuri fell silent, unable to explain the mess that was his and Yuuri’s relationship. Idol. Fallen idol. Rival. Friend. But none of those terms could communicate why Yuri felt a punch in his gut when Viktor came to him, announcing his return. While Yakov and Lilia had fretted over Viktor—as though he was the more important part of Yuuri and Viktor—Yuri knew the real message. Yuuri was stopping, was stopping for a reason as stupid as he and his boyfriend couldn’t sort out how to talk to each other.

But Yuri had that talent. Yuri could talk to Yuuri.

“I see,” Beka finally said, the silence drawing too long, “your relationship is… complicated?”

 Yuri nodded. “Yes, complicated.”

 

~*~

 

The next couple months passed by in a beautiful blur. 

 

~*~

 

Not beautiful—he grew eight centimeters in the summer.

 

~*~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics from Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam's "1000 Times".
> 
> Tumblr [ here. ](http://electronique-brain.tumblr.com)


	2. Storge, part i

 

~*~

 

“You’re going to have to take it easy,” the doctor said. “Tone back the jumps, rethink a lot of your current spin positions, it’s vital that your growth plates aren’t damaged at this time.” She gave Yuri a critical glance, but Yuri could see it linger over how he was arranged to keep as little weight off his right hip as possible. “That means—your knees, your ankles, your wrists, your hips…”

 _Everything,_ Yuri thought, _literally everything a skater injures._

Beside her, Yakov nodded his assent. 

Yuri pounded his fist against the table. “I’ve grown,” he hissed, “so what? It’s the off-season, I’ll spend a couple months readjusting, it’s fine!”

The doctor’s expression was sympathetic when she looked up from her clipboard, cooing as if he were a child, “Oh dear, you don’t know? You haven’t stopped growing.” 

“What?”

She stepped closer and shoved a chart with several lines to him. “See this?” her finger traced a line, stopping at a point, “you’re here,” and then her finger traced up and up, “but you’re projected to wind up here.”

There were too many lines and numbers on the chart, Yuri’s vision was swimming. “So how much longer?”

She pursed her lips. “Your growing won’t even out until you’re 18.” 

And then, as if she forgot _who the fuck he was_ she tilted her head and smiled, “You’re going to be quite tall—how lucky, you’ll be very popular!”

 

~*~

 

Yuri didn’t look at Yakov as he said it. 

“I’m not taking time off.”

Yakov grunted, folding his arms in front of him, “Vitya was like that too, but he took a season off.”

 _Vitya,_ Yuri’s mind screamed, _had a fucking trust fund._

There was a long pause. 

“Fine, we’ll make this work.”

 

~*~

 

Approximately no one at the rink had to know the details of his doctor’s visit, because they’d all been around to hear his bloodcurdling screams the first time he skidded against the ice, limbs too-long and with too-little muscle mass for his calculations to work. He had looked like a beginner, tripping and flailing over the rink. Suddenly, the travails of Yuri! Falling! _On Ice!_ displaced Viktuuri as the giant elephant in the club.

If Yuri didn’t already feel like all of the rink’s ventilated air was lodged in his elastic joints, then he felt like it when the junior male skaters stopped whispering about him (a month ago). Mila couldn’t even bring herself to find something funny in how all his quads collapsed into triples and he still couldn’t land them (three weeks ago).  

“You know,” Viktor said, at last, a week into Yuri’s one-man mission to relearn at least his quad sal by the Grand Prix, “you should be spending more time on your step sequences.”

Yuri didn’t bother looking up, simply leaned into the stretch until his nose was pressed against the ground. 

“I got level 4s on all my step sequences,” he said to a dust mite on the floor.

“You did,” Viktor admitted, “when you were shorter than Yuuri.”

Yuri didn’t need to be reminded that.

Viktor crouched over and stuck his head right in front of Yuri’s face, Yuri growled and he laughed. “I’m just saying—you’re still growing.” Viktor saw Yuri’s aghast look—no way, _no way_ had any of that doctor’s visit leaked—and he lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve seen photos of your family—all the men are giants.”

All his life, Yuri had hated being compared to his mother, but he would have killed for her tiny bone structure.

“Relearning steps won’t be as hard as relearning jumps that can crack your bones.”

He said it so meaningfully as though Yuri hadn’t considered that, but no male skater could stay competitive without at least one quad. Yuuri, for all his gripes about being better at step sequences and spins, was competent at three types and was adding a fourth. He heard the rapid cursing of a landing gone wrong and remembered.  _Fucking hell,_ his mind snapped, Mila _has been working on a quad sal._

_She'll probably have it by the Olympics..._

His hips and lower back were burning with the prolonged stretch and Yuri pulled up to lean his head against the wall, gathering his long legs in front of him. “What? Are you proposing you coach me too?”

Viktor smirked, “Well if you’re asking…”

“I’m not,” Yuri said, closing his eyes.

“I’ve been here before, just let me help you.”

Yuri would snap back if he had the energy, but he didn’t feel like listing all the ways his current predicament was different from Viktor Nikiforov, Age 16. Instead, he stood up and walked away. 

Viktor, it seemed, had finally learnt the meaning of subtlety. At night, when nearly all the second-rate skaters had fled for home, Yuri looked up from his tiny corner of the rink to see Yuuri skating over to him.

Yuri sighed and then pulled his long hair out of its ponytail—if he was going to spend the next thirty minutes getting lectured by Viktor via Yuuri, he wanted to hide behind his hair.

Yuuri paused when he neared him, tilting his head before his mouth curved into a soft smile. The unfolding of it was long and easy; Yuri’s heart slowed watching it. But then he looked into Yuuri’s ridiculously huge eyes and his heart beat regularly. In that reflection he could see himself clearly—himself and all of his long, unbound hair.

“What do you want?” Yuri said to the specter of Viktor Nikiforov, Age 16.

Yuuri was taken aback by the heated response. He broke eye contact and that phantom disappeared.“I wanted to help you.” 

“With my step sequences?”

“Yes,” he paused when Yuri sighed, especially loud, “but I remembered that you showed me the quad sal…”

 _You better not have forgotten,_ Yuri thought. He never would have done that for any of the other skaters. 

“…so I thought I’d help you with it now?” Yuuri smiled again, placing his hand on his head and drawing a straight line to Yuri. He laughed when his hand brushed Yuri’s bangs, Yuri swatted it weakly. “We’re nearly the same height… I think I can help?”

His face was open as he said it. Yuri tensed and untensed before he pulled his long hair back into a bun, elastic band snapping harshly in his haste.

“Fine.”

 

~*~

 

Yuri wasn’t assigned anywhere Viktor was, and by sheer luck, wasn’t placed against Yuuri.

Yuuri, of course, had to skate against Viktor at the Cup of China. A placement that screamed at the ISU trying to be relevant. 

In St. Petersburg, everyone watched with sickening fascination as the competition unfolded. Neither were pulling their moves, but anyone could tell Viktor was saving his best jumps for the final. Yuuri, in true Yuuri fashion, stubbornly kept in his lutz, even though it was a mess and the sloppy landing ruined his ability to land any of his other quads. 

His unrivaled step sequences meant it was obvious he was going to medal, and most of the skaters duly kept up the delusion he had a shot at gold before Viktor skated. The entire room fell silent when Viktor finished his program, though. Alexei surmised, “That’s that.”

Yuri was happy the heat of Mila’s glare stopped Alexei from cutting the feed. It saved him the energy from beating the younger skater himself. Those still unaccustomed to the antics of Yuuri and Viktor crowded closer to the screen, but Yuri hung back. Predictably, Viktor glided off the rink and into Yuuri’s arms. Predictably, the two held each other when his scores were announced, but Yuuri's face was hidden in the nape of Viktor's neck for Yuri to make out the expression.

A day later, Yuri’s news alert on “Katsuki Yuuri” dinged and he opened his phone to a trending article on the Cup of China medal ceremony. 

“Love Wins,” Yuri whispered to himself. _It’s worse than Viktuuri_. But he bit back that nausea and scrolled through the photos. 

Viktor’s smile was less cloyingly plastic in the photo where held up his gold medal, but Yuri kept his eyes glued on Yuuri. _It doesn’t seem fake_ , he thought as the Yuuri on screen held up that bronze medal. He’d have no right to be upset, he could’ve easily gotten a silver medal. _Idiot, why don’t you ever_ try _and be sensible with your programs?_  

Yuuri either did exceptionally well or exceptionally bad. He had none of an élite skater’s calculating edge—that pragmatic voice reminding him to pull his best moves until the final, to compromise a long-shot road to gold for a sure path to bronze. Had he known restraint, Celestino could have turned him into a medallist, but he never would have worn gold.

When he was younger, Yuri had appreciated the daring of his name-sharer. What was the point of the sport if you were always pulling back for fear of reprisal? He already had enough headaches compromising all the wasted expectations of a normal life for what he was given. _All or nothing,_ he would think in competition, launching himself into a jump too advanced for his age set. Yuri knew, for all Yakov's statements to the contrary, that his daring was what enraptured Yakov and those federation officials, was what compelled them to give him access to resources far above his family's means.

For all his protestations of being Yuuri’s coach, Viktor also found his guilelessness endearing. The next photo was of Viktor tugging Yuuri up to the first place podium. The one after that was the two of them kissing. Standing a tier below them, JJ had his arms stubbornly crossed into the “JJ-style” pose, but his expression was harried. Just for that expression, Yuri kept the news article of the medal ceremony open. 

 

~*~

 

Yuri was still smarting at his third place finish in America when he called Beka to congratulate him on his first place win in Moscow. It was unfair for Beka to have to deal with the aftermath of his growth spurt, so he summoned the memory of JJ’s face, disbelief in pixelated form. Grinning, he asked Beka if he had his gold medal.

He smirked when Beka nodded, pulling out the medal and holding it to the camera. “I bet JJ blew a fit.”

Beka, who truly had nothing bad to say about anyone, hummed, refusing to confirm or deny whether JJ had looked heartbroken afterwards. He also saw right through him.

“Yura,” Beka said after a long silence, “your grandfather was at the competition.”

Yuri blinked. He had talked about Beka to his grandfather, but he didn’t anticipate him following Beka’s career, much less seeking him out.

“He asked me if you were doing okay. He said you didn’t call him during Skate America.”

Yuri bit his cheek. Ever since he was a junior he made a point to call his grandfather during major competitions, but those first few days he had practiced with an eye on all the other competitors. They were better than he expected. Nowhere near as good as Viktor or Yuuri, but pubescent Yuri was no longer as good as them. _I'm barely as good as them_ , he had thought, watching Seung-gil land quad loops one after another, like it was nothing. Yuri had split the week in the rink with Yakov or in the dance studio with Lilia. Between the two of them, he collapsed into bed every day, unable (unwilling) to summon the emotional energy to call his grandfather.

Beka was looking at him for a response. Yuri rolled his eyes and pulled his hood up over his head. “The competition was better than I expected. I was busy the entire time.”

Beka was eerily silent. Yuri knew what he was thinking. Beka had suffered through the same hell two years ago, was absent from nearly every major competition and had relocated from JJ's rink in Canada to Kazakhstan, the money drain no longer feasible with a stalled career.  _But then he took bronze at Worlds and no one's stopped talking about him since._  Out of anyone, Yuri could speak freely with Beka. “I had to pull out of a lot of competitions to devote more time to the Grand Prix, but I don’t think I can win-” _or medal_ “-my jumps are still a mess.”

“They’re better than you think,” Beka answered. He looked up and exhaled. “You just need to stop comparing yourself to Viktor and Yuuri.”

  

~*~

 

Regardless of his growth spurt, Yuri cinched a spot at the Grand Prix. 

“Take a break,” Yakov breathed out in an airport terminal somewhere in Europe, “Seung-gil Lee announced he’s withdrawing yesterday.”

It was to his credit that Yakov didn’t mention JJ’s withdrawal from the final. As if he needed another reminder that his Grand Prix spot was JJ's throwaway gift.

“No,” Yuri spat, pulled apart in a perfect split on the ground. Fuck if everyone stared, he had been stuck in his seat for hours, would be stuck in it for several more hours. His jumps were a mess, his flexibility would make up for it. _You’re all pedos for looking at me anyways_ , he thought when a businessman leered. Regardless of how many calories he consumed and how many hours he spent on the rink, he wasn’t bulking up quick enough and looked like an overstretched 14 year old.

“ _Yurio,_ ” Yakov hissed, face turning a hideous shade of purple. “I— _we_ — _”_ Yuri snorted as he rotated, leaning down until his face was parallel to his left calf. _Fucker, you’re not thinking about me._ “—would prefer that you won gold at the Olympics then at this.” Yuri pulled up, rotated, and leaned down, letting his unbound hair hide his wince. It didn’t matter though, Yakov was too busy laying out the Russian Skating Federation’s master plan to notice. “—at this rate, you wouldn’t even qualify for the Russian team.”

Yuri didn’t bother dignifying it with a response. He could pull a Viktor Nikiforov, not show up to Russian Nationals (claiming he _slept in_ of all the excuses—as if no one would spill that he had spent the day sleeping _on_ the musician who created his FS music) and still be selected to the Olympic team. 

Instead, he said, “I need the prize money.”

Yakov didn’t press. Anyone who knew the financial state of the Plisetsky household knew that between all the titles he racked up last season and the sudden, miraculous turn of his mother’s health, he could afford to skip the Grand Prix.

That and the GPF cash prize was chump change to what could be made in Olympic sponsorship money. Seung-gil probably thought that. JJ certainly did. But Yuri needed that medal to remind people he existed.

 

~*~

 

It was useless, Viktor won.

To the relief of the administrators, this year's banquet was tame, but Viktor had pulled Yuuri up into a tango and the crowd had watched, entranced. Beka had left, “it’s not really my style,” he had explained, offering Yuri a helmet before he sped off to a mountain or something. Yuri wasn’t sure, he snuck a couple glasses of champagne and was tipsy, was now realizing he should have joined Beka.

 _It would have saved me this nightmare_ , he thought, staring at Yuuri and Viktor. Viktor and Yuuri. “Their fans call them Viktuuri,” Yuuri’s friend had gushed, in-between blathering in Yuri’s ear about how many children were starting figure skating classes in Thailand, as if Yuri had _no clue_ they had a portmanteau. 

_Viktuuri. Victory. Of fucking course._

Yuri stepped out of the ballroom to the open double doors of the balcony. He leaned against the railing, breathing in the cold air.

The competition had been excruciatingly long and more than once, Yakov had begged Yuri to withdraw. Yakov had almost won the moment the SP scores were announced. Yuri saw the number had felt all his hopes and dreams whistle out of his ears. But then, like dominos, nearly everyone kept falling. 

“There’s something wrong,” Yuuri explained in the hallway, when Yuri had snarled about his flubbed quad flip, “the ice felt weird.”

Viktor, who had skated on more ice than anyone else in their roster, had quickly compensated, proving once again the heady mixture of experience and innate genius. Unfortunately, the sound technicians had messed up his music. The other skaters were horrified as the music looped in on itself, completely out of sync with the choreography. In that first startled beat of notes, Viktor had skidded to a halt in front of the judges, mouthing off in perfect French until they let him skate from the beginning.

Two days later, Yuuri had skated his heart out to “History Maker”, improbably breaking his own world record. Had Viktor Nikiforov been anyone else, his tirade to the judges and later to a reporter (“French event planning,” he responded, when asked how he felt about his own SP score “ruined my Yuuri’s short program”) would have condemned him to second place, but Viktor was Viktor and he took gold.

Yuri, angry, bitter, and sore, found it in himself to land his two quads—sloppily, 15 year old Yuri would have been aghast—and take the bronze. Afterwards, he had spent hours in Beka’s hotel room, the two of them watching mind-numbing movie after another as Yuri let himself breath harshly, let himself curse every time he shifted his weight back onto his hip or ankle. 

When Mila informed him via text that “Viktuuri is celebrating. These walls rn’t soundproof. Stay w Beka”, Beka had gamely lent him his bed. Yuri had protested and they shared, but he slept curled away from Beka. When his breathing evened, Yuri finally let himself cry, trying desperately to stifle his sobs, to not break the perfect stillness of the room. There had been something dark and knowing in Beka’s eyes the next morning, though.

His gaze had been dark and knowing again during the medal ceremony. Yuri had stood a tier below Yuuri, who was a tier below Viktor. But then Viktor pulled up Yuuri, and Yuuri pulled up Yuri and he had been pressed between them in some twisted family portrait. _I’m not your son_ , he wanted to sneer as Viktor babbled about his prize. Yuri stood three centimeters taller than Yuuri and he remembered the perfect, horrifying line of his growth chart when Viktor and Yuuri hooked both their arms around his too-lean shoulders. 

Through the sea of lights and applause, he found Beka and stilled, thinking, _Why?_

But then fucking Viktuuri kissed behind him to their victory and the rage came back, _I’m not your fucking son._

 _I’m not your son_ , he thought again. He heard a particularly loud cheer from inside and cast his face down to the streets below—Viktuuri was probably kissing again. He distracted himself by mapping out the route Beka had taken from the hotel entrance to the outskirts of Marseille.

“I should have gone with him,” Yuri said out loud to no one. Was he slurring his words? He didn’t know, he was drunk and his thoughts were a jumble in the cold night air.

“Gone with who?”

Yuri spun around. The movement was too quick and he felt himself wince and unbalance with all that weight shifting onto his right hip. A warm hand grasped at his arm, holding him up. He winced again. It was Yuuri. Yuuri was holding him up. Of course.

“No one,” Yuri said quickly, pulling himself out of Yuuri’s hold. 

Yuuri pouted. “No one? Really?”

Yuri forced his eyes away from Yuri’s mouth, distracted himself with the medal he was wearing. 

“Oh this?” Yuuri held up the medal, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“They’re plastic,” Yuri said.

“Mm-hm. Viktor told me. He’s very upset. Ve- _ery_ upset.” Yuuri smiled. “He told me to hold out for an Olympic gold. They’re the best quality!” He said the last part in Russian. 

It would have made Yuri smile—Yuuri had begged him for help on his Russian. “I want to communicate with Viktor in his native tongue!” he had said and Yuri obliged because he wanted to hear how Yuuri would sound out Yuratchka.

Hearing the Russian now and seeing that medal around his neck made Yuri angry. “Hold out for an Olympic gold?” he repeated, “For what? For when to retire?”

Yuuri blinked. 

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Yuri said, “Finally beat Viktor Nikiforov, can retire in peace.”

Yuri couldn’t read Yuuri’s face. He instead turned back to the street, but Yuuri gripped him, pulling him back. “What? I’m not retiring.” 

“Of course you are,” Yuri spat back. The alcohol had loosed his tongue, he was finally saying what he spent the past day secretly sobbing about, what he spent the past year fearing. “The second you get your dream—to skate against Viktor and win, you’ll go back to Japan and keep your one real gold medal and that’ll be the death of Katsuki Yuuri.”

_Why do I even have that photo of you?_

Yuuri was looking at him funnily. For a terrifying moment, Yuri feared he said that last thought out loud, but Yuuri said. “I love skating, I’m not retiring anytime soon. Even if I beat Viktor.” He laughed out loud, leaning heavily on the railing, “Maybe Viktor will retire? He’s been so nostalgic about Hasetsu… It’s terrible, I’ve always wanted to skate with him.”

_Are you so blind?_

Yuuri stood up straight, his eyes were shining, and his right hand was a fist around the cheap plastic of the medal. He looked like a T.V. character. “I’m not retiring, I’ll keep going! I'll be stronger!”

It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth.

 _Is that what I sound like?_ Yuri thought. _Is this why you think I don’t want you to retire?_

He actually said that last part out loud. Yuuri’s voice was quiet when he asked, “Why don’t you want me to retire?”

 _Why? Why have I tried all this time?_ His hip was throbbing and Yuuri was so adorably perplexed and he was drunk. 

Later, he’ll blame the alcohol. He’ll blame the open air. He’ll blame his throbbing ankle, his throbbing hip, his entire body really. Stretching, growing. Growing up, growing apart.

Now, he blamed how bright-eyed Yuuri had been, how flushed his cheeks were. And somewhere in the time it took his eyes retrace the curve of Yuuri’s mouth, he felt the inexplicable urge to map that line against his own. 

And, _oh_. 

He pushed against the railing, hands reaching for Yuuri until his fingers curled over his nape, slid through his hair, tugging Yuuri up as he pulled himself forward. For one perfect moment, Yuri sighed against Yuuri’s mouth. 

_All or nothing._

Then Yuuri was shoving against him, propelling backwards, back to Viktor.

_Nothing._

 

_~*~_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr [ here. ](http://electronique-brain.tumblr.com)


	3. Storge, part ii

~*~

 

Yuri stared into the open doors that Yuuri stumbled through. He couldn’t bring himself to do something as cliche as to touch his lips and marvel over the event that was his First Kiss. _Idiot,_ the word drifted through his mind, _you’ve ruined everything_.

Could he look Yuuri in the eye after this? Could he talk with him? Smile with him? Skate with him?

His hip throbbed at the thought and Yuri closed his eyes. He couldn’t skate against Yuuri now. What hope was there of skating with him? Yuri breathed in the cold air, and walked back into the dance hall. He weaved through the crowd of tipsy skaters, his arm slung across his front to exaggeratedly cradle his hip.

 _I’m hurt,_ Yuri decided. _I have to go back._

 

~*~

 

He had a dream the night before his 16th birthday. When he woke, Yuri could remember the edges of it, fuzzy and matte. “It was a dumb dream,” he said to a wall. Already, the dim colors of the dream were slipping away.

Sasha mewled and Yuri smiled, wrapping himself loosely around the cat. He picked up his phone and saw the barrage of text messages. “I’m sixteen now,” he said aloud, but he shook his head and stood up. 

He had a week before they would fly out to Boston for Worlds. So Yuri changed, ate, and trudged through the damp snow of St. Petersburg to the rink. 

 _I am sixteen,_ he thought, the crunch of snow punctuating each word. Was this birthday that special? He’d been living alone, as an adult, since he was twelve. Did any birthday past twelve truly matter? He would have to fly out to Boston in a week, where he’d be expected to beat Yuuri and Viktor. Yuri ground to a halt at the thought of the two—they were in Hasetsu, nominally because it was Yuuri’s sister’s birthday, most likely because Yuuri (Viktor) was homesick. Yuri imagined the two of them in Yuuko’s rink, skating side by side. He kicked angrily at the snow. Viktor probably wasn’t even practicing, probably just mooning over Yuuri and calling it coaching. 

“Is he even trying?” Yuri asked himself. A growl tore itself from his throat and he shook his head furiously before he entered the rink.

A few skaters had wished him happy birthday, Lilia had given him flowers, and Mila had thrown him over her head before dropping him and tugging at his ears brightly. "You're legal now, Yura!" she sang as she pulled on his ears. "Aren't you excited?" _Excited for what?_ he thought, but his mind quickly wandered. He had blushed so brightly thinking about it, that he pulled out of her hands mid-tug. Throughout the day, he was bombarded with a slew of calls and text messages. Yakov had gruffly allowed him the hour to talk with his grandfather. 

But the day passed like any other. At night, he trudged through the slosh of St. Petersburg, back to his apartment.

 _I am sixteen,_ he thought, kicking through the melting snow. Should he have felt older? The Russian state said he had more rights, more liberties, but he didn't feel less like an adult the day before.It was hard to feel childlike when he did everything expected of an adult.

Yuri felt an odd sense of deja vu when he arrived at his doorstep and twisted his door open.

“Who’s there?” Yuri said into the dark. He heard the patter of paws against linoleum—too heavy and fast for Sasha—and sighed as Makkachin bounded up to him. “Yes, yes, good boy,” he greeted, absently patting her head.

“Awwww, Makkachin was so quiet for you!”

Out of nowhere, Viktor launched himself at him, wrapping all his limbs around Yuri’s body. They both crashed to the ground. Trapped under Viktor’s body, Yuri saw Yuuri walk into the hallway. 

Yuuri held his hands in prayer and bowed exaggeratedly. “Ah! Sorry, we were held up in our layover!”

“It’s fine,” Yuri growled, rolling out from under Viktor at the precise second he shoved against him. “Who gave you keys to my apartment?”

Yuuri froze. He scratched his hair and muttered about food before disappearing into the kitchen. Yuri yelled after his form about not answering the question, but he also let Viktor manhandle him to a seat at his table. He sat quietly, observing Yuuri bustle around the kitchen trying to find all his tableware.

Viktor leaned against the table, “You seem excited, Yurio.” 

“Excited to beat you.”

“He’s thinking about the year,” Yuuri said at the same time. He slid in a seat and pushed a plate of pirozhki towards Yuri. His eyes were unnaturally bright and expectant as Yuri broke open the dough.

“This is—”

“I don’t have your grandfather’s recipe, but I tried my best!”

Yuri looked at Yuuri. Yuuri was smiling so brightly, happy to be there, caught between Yuri and Viktor. 

It all felt familiar. And because it felt familiar, everything turned fuzzy, matte. _Impossible,_ Yuri thought, the dream rushing back, _impossible dream._ He viciously broke off a piece of the bread, watching the smoke of cooked meat waft into the air. Through the curling steam, he could see Yuuri. He could see himself. He could see himself speaking.

“I am sixteen, you are twenty four, and Viktor is twenty eight. There are four years between you and Viktor and eight between me and you. Will I always be twice as far from you as Viktor?”  

 _“Yuri!_ ”

That was Viktor's voice. Viktor was there.

The dream shattered. 

Yuuri and Viktor were looking at him oddly. Yuri grimaced. He took a large bite of the pirozhki, let the warmth burn his tongue, and said, “It’s good.”

 

~*~

 

“Yu~ri~o!” 

There was a terrible voice in his ear.

“Yu~ri~ _oh_!”

Snarling, Yuri opened his eyes. _Mistake_. A glint of gold blinded him. He rubbed at his eyes until the terrible blur of gold and red took form.

Mila blinked and smirked, “Aww, the little kitty can’t take alcohol!”

Yuri batted at her finger. “What, hag?” he meant to say, but it came out as a croak.

“Mila, maybe this is worse than we thought?” someone said behind her, in English. A woman moved from behind Mila. She smiled encouragingly, holding out her hand to pull him up. Realizing he was caught passed out on the floor just outside his hotel room and there was no where lower to sink, Yuri took her help.

“Yeah, Yuri, how much did you drink?” 

“No—” his throat was only capable of hideous croaks, it seemed. Yuri coughed and swallowed until it felt like he could produce sound. “Not much.”

The woman in front of him lifted an eyebrow. “Mickey saw you—he said you went through a metric shit-ton of champagne.”

 _Mickey?_ Yuri looked at her again. _Fuck._ He’d heard enough junior female skaters fawning over Sara Crispino’s purple eyes to recognize her on sight. He groaned. _I’m being judged by Miss Twincest._

“I’m Russian,” Yuri argued back. “We’re weaned on vodka.”

“It’s 6am and you’re passed out in front of your hotel room.”

_6 AM?!_

“Don’t worry,” Sara offered, “everyone’s still out celebrating—your reputation as a vodka-weaned Russian is safe.” Mila didn’t even try to stifle her snort.

“The better question,” Mila cut in, “is why you were passed out in the hallway?”

Yuri shut his eyes, trying to remember. He had stumbled through the banquet feigning injury. Regardless, he had still been forced by fellow skaters and worse, sponsors, into more champagne, which he inhaled to get out faster. And then Viktor appeared out of nowhere, quick enough grab an ice dancer’s flask out of her offering hands. “I’m not your fucking son,” Yuri had hissed, before downing whatever that was. He had stalked back to his room after but couldn’t go in. 

“My key card wasn’t working,” he said.

Mila snorted. “No shit. You’re in front of Viktor’s room. _That_ ’s—” she pointed at the room next door “—your room.”

_I’m an idiot._

“You’re an idiot.”

She still offered him her arm to pull him up. Determinedly not looking at her weird best friend, Yuri fished out his keycard and held it up against the correct door. The green light flashed and he pushed the door open. “I’m going to sleep now hag,” he called out, moving inside as quickly as possible. 

“Sara I’ll handle this!—”

Yuri wasn’t quick enough to close the door quick enough. With her freakish upper body strength, Mila forced the door open until she slipped in. Yuri resigned himself to his fate and moved to his bed, falling into it.

“ _So_. What possibly could have driven you to drink?” he heard through the muffle of sheets.

“I don’t know,” he snarked to the side, “why do you still sound drunk at 6AM?”

From how unfocused Sara had looked, she hadn’t been sober either. They had probably poured shots down Yuuri’s mouth and enjoyed the show. Didn’t that hurt? Yuri was having a drunken mid-career crisis against Viktor’s door while everyone was out celebrating Viktuuri’s victory.

Mila said nothing, strangely silent. Maybe he was too harsh? Yuri sat up and said, “I kissed the pig.”

Mila’s eyes grew round and her mouth fell open. “Yuuri? Yuuri Katsuki?”

Yuri nodded.

“Viktor Nikiforov’s husband, Yuuri.”

“They’re not actually married.”

Her expression was of such incredulity, as if Yuri had blasphemed instead of speaking the cold, hard truth. “They may as well be,” she muttered.

Yuri flopped back onto the bed and flung his forearm over his eyes. _They may as well be._ He snickered, remembering the Sunday dinners they’d host, inviting a dozen people to Viktor’s expensive, luxurious apartment. The first time it happened, everyone in Yakov’s rink had shown up camera-ready. Viktor’s apartment was a monochromatic cinder block, but an award-winning one. _Was._ All the time he should have spent training, Viktor had spent designing a highly-conceptual East Meets West interior design disaster. The bathrooms even had hand towels embroidered with their names, _Viktor_ , in Russian, _Yuuri,_ in Japanese. 

Yuri had gagged and then uploaded a photo onto his Instagram.

“What do I do?” he said out loud. 

“Stay hydrated? Get sleep?”

Yuri groaned and turned over, burying his head into the pillow. “About piggy.”

Mila’s voice was wistful, “You be his friend. Whatever he wants you to be.”

 

~*~

 

Apparently, it was too much to ask for Viktuuri to spend the day before their flight exploring Marseille. Yuri had let himself fall asleep entertaining fantasies of the two cooing over a regional seafood dish as Viktor showed off his French. _He’d probably force Yuuri to wear his medal with him_ , he had thought, snorting before he pulled the covers over his head. 

That thought calmed him as much as it infuriated him. It wasn’t fair that they could live their lives like nothing happened. But Yuri wouldn’t have to deal with Yuuri knocking on his door, demanding they talk.

Yuri never seemed to get what he wanted.

Hours later, he was forced awake by knocking. “What?!” he screamed in the direction of the door.

“It’s me!”  

_Oh no._

“I know you’re awake now,” Yuuri’s voice drifted through the door, “open the door.”

 _Goddammit._ Reluctantly, Yuri stood up and grabbed a hoodie at the edge of his bed, throwing it on. _It was nothing, you were drunk_ , Yuri thought as he walked to the door. He looked through the peephole. From the other side, Yuuri cracked a smile, waving, and Yuri drew back, repulsed. 

 _It was nothing, you were drunk_ , Yuri repeated as undid the locks and opened the door. Wordlessly, he stepped aside to let Yuuri in and shut the door behind him.

Yuri had expected Yuuri to be vaguely cheerful, patronizing even, as he would remind Yuri not only was he _too old_ but _he was engaged_. _Hoped it really_ , Yuri realized, turning to face Yuuri. The tableau in front of him was worse—Yuuri’s expression was serious. _It was nothing, you were drunk_. Irritably, Yuri pulled the cat-eared hood up over his head.

“We need to talk,” Yuuri announced. Such a cliché.

Yuri pursed his lips, “Not really.” He could feel Yuuri’s silent stare on him. It was so much worse than he anticipated. “I was drunk.”

“So you haven’t thought about that—"

“Of course I have,” Yuri interrupted, _and you haven’t._ He remembered Mila and Sara, drunk, out partying with everyone else. With Yuuri. The anger rose easily. He let it eclipse his embarrassment. It turned his voice to something measured. “I was drunk and may have ruined our…” his throat was dry, “friendship.”

Yuri found Yuuri’s eyes. They were shining underneath his ridiculously thick lenses. _He’s trying to think about what to say_ , Yuri thought. His chest clenched suddenly at the thought of Yuuri saying anything and he drew his hood up further over his hair, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and began to walk away.

But then Yuuri’s hand struck out, grasping him by the elbow to hold him still. “I meant,” Yuuri said, “how long have you thought about doing that?”

The blood rushed from Yuri’s face. “What do you mean?” his voice was a whisper.

“At the,” Yuuri started, but then he shook his head and began again, “someone mentioned that you may have—”

“Mila,” Yuri said immediately. “Lilia. Georgi. Yakov.”

Yuuri stayed still and quiet as Yuri listed them, his fury grew with each passing syllable. He knew.

“Viktor.”

Yuuri didn’t gulp, but there was a split-second flicker of recognition in his eyes that spoke volumes. 

“ _Viktor?_ ”

Yuuri drew back as Yuri stepped forward. He could see his expression reflected in Yuuri’s _fucking ridiculous_ glasses—he looked angry and looming. “Is this what you two talk about? Instead of all the goddamn problems in your relationship you talk about _me_?”

That last part steeled Yuuri. He straightened himself out and wrenched himself from the too-tight orbit of Yuri. “Problems? What problems?” 

Yuuri said it so calmly that Yuri felt ashamed. But then Yuuri’s glittering gold ring caught the little light in the room and Yuri was blinded with the worst thing Viktor ever did. “Why aren’t you married yet?” he spat out, “holding out for a gold medal— _who the hell_ would tie a marriage to a career goal?”

Yuuri frowned, he brought his ring hand up and twisted the gold band. “Yura,” he carefully pronounced, those two syllables setting Yuri’s face aflame, “ _I_ don’t want to be married until I have a gold medal.”

“Why? You don’t think you’re good enough? Is Viktor no—”

“No,” Yuuri cut him off firmly, “I _am_ good enough.” In any other circumstance, Yuri would have been happy to know that Yuuri’s self-confidence wasn’t another victim of Viktor Nikiforov. “But I can be better,” he completed, “I don’t want to be Viktor Nikiforov’s Husband until everyone knows me as Katsuki Yuuri, Gold Medalist.”

“You are, technically, Katsuki Yuuri, Gold Medalist.”

Yuuri winced. “We both know it was a fluke.” There was something carefully guarded in his expression, Yuri didn’t have to think hard of what else to call that sham medal. Viktor’s fans called it, and Yuuri, far worse.

“Even if you get a gold medal, they’re still going to say you’re not worthy, it’ll never stop.” Yuri felt cruel saying those words.

“And? Viktor can’t stop them, it’s nothing worse than what your angels are calling Otabek.”

_What does Beka have to do with this?_

Yuuri then spat out, “Also, these aren’t relationship problems, these are Viktor problems.”

“So what?” it spilled out of Yuri’s mouth, “Viktor is self-centered, selfish, vain, arrogant—”

“I know that,” Yuuri interrupted. His anger had cooled as quickly as it appeared. “He’s also patient, creative, silly. I fell in love with him for everything he is, not who he is in front of cameras.”

The words drew the breath out of Yuri’s lungs. His hands were fists in his pockets. “Why are you even here?”

“Because I love you.” 

It was so matter of fact, but the words stung.

“But not the way you love me.”

Yuri wasn’t brave enough to look Yuuri in the eye. “Did Viktor tell you that?” he hissed at the geometric pattern of the hotel’s cheap rug. “Did he explain that I was in love with you?”

“No,” Yuuri said, “I knew since Barcelona.”

That drew Yuri back. “I didn’t—”

“No, you didn’t.” Yuuri’s mouth was in a grim line. “When you skated your free program, it was like I could hear you, loud and clear.” Slowly, his mouth tilted upwards, “my skating meant that much to you, didn’t it? Looking at you skate, I realized you loved me.”

“That’s a leap.” Yuri’s voice was steady. Inwardly, he congratulated himself on that careful modulation, but his eyes felt wet.

Yuuri reached out to Yuri again, but Yuri stepped back and the other man’s hand brushed against the fabric of his sweatshirt. Yuuri looked thoughtful when he pulled back his hand. “No, not really,” he said, “I used to feel the same way about Viktor. Before he even came to Hasetsu, I was in love with him because of his skating. The thought of him stopping was painful—we only knew each other because of figure skating, what happened if we didn’t have that?”

Why, in the twisted tale of How Russia’s Ice Tiger Fell In Love With Japan’s Pork-Obsessed Ace, was Viktor Yuuri’s love avatar? Yuri still remembered that infamous interview, years ago. _We were too abstract,_ Yuuko had translated over text, _all our love but Viktor’s was too vague._

Voice heavy with memory, Yuri blurted, “You’re nothing to me, if you don’t skate. If I don’t skate, I’m nothing to you."

Yuuri’s eyes widened and he surged forward until his hands were wrapped around Yuri’s biceps. “Listen to me.” Yuri could push Yuuri’s hands away, could shove back, but he was frozen in place, trapped by Yuuri’s eyes. “That’s not true—regardless of what happens we’ll always be in each other’s lives!”

_But will I be as important to you?_

The thought gave Yuri the strength to tear himself out of Yuuri’s arms. He swallowed thickly and pushed a confused Yuuri to the door. “Last night was nothing.” He opened the door. Yuuri had the presence of mind to step outside. “I was drunk,” Yuri intoned. It sounded as fake as he imagined it would, so he amended, “This is all normal teenager stuff, ignore it.”

He slammed the door shut.

 

~*~

 

He slumped to the ground afterwards. After a few minutes staring at the ceiling, he caved and pulled out his phone.

 **To: Beka  
** where r u? can we talk?

 

~*~

 

When he was smaller, Yuri could teeter off the far edge of the motorbike’s seat and lean back, his tenuous catch on the leather enough. But he was bigger now, too tall, and a hairline too wide to expect to not fall off if he was stringent on personal space. That and escaping heartbreak required higher speed than escaping fangirls.

The bright colors of Marseille were disappearing at a rate of 90 kilometers per hour. Yuri closed his eyes and pressed himself even closer to Beka.

His chin was tucked on Beka’s shoulder and his arms were wrapped around his middle. Yuri breathed in deeply, mentally thanking all of Beka’s younger siblings for utterly destroying any sense of personal space the man had. 

When the bike finally stopped, Yuri opened his eyes. “Where are we?”

“The ocean.”

“Okay.”

Beka dismounted with an easy grace that made Yuri envious. His body was falling apart, he couldn’t climb off without a wince. “I’ll see a doctor,” he muttered at Beka’s pointed gaze.

“I don’t believe you.”

Yuri half-snorted, half-laughed. He should have seen a doctor a month ago but no one would have prescribed the anti-inflammatories without leaving a paper trail. Yakov already had suspicions, but for all he knew, Yuri spent his late nights training step sequences, not jumps. 

“Well,” Yuri responded, “you had the sense to skate juniors longer _and_ take a season off.”

“The good sense.”

Yuri shrugged. He didn’t need to remind Beka of the dozen junior skaters waiting for the opportunity to bury Yuri Plisetsky in the eyes of the RSF. Beka gave him another pointed look but dropped the subject, opting to walk towards a railing and dropping down to sit at the edge. 

After a moment, Yuri walked over and sat down next to Beka. The view really was spectacular—the most beautiful shade of blue, stretching endlessly. “How’d you find this place?” Yuri asked.

“I asked a local to point me to a good place to think.”

“You speak French?” 

Beka smiled, “ _Ouais_. I trained with JJ, Yuri.”

“He’s Canadian.”  
  
“ _French_ -Canadian.”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Of course, whatever, I already had to learn English, I’m not adding on French just to join the Francophone skaters club.”

Beka touched his arm and Yuri tore his eyes away from the ocean. “Yura? Why did you ask me here?”

Yuri tensed—he wanted to avoid this, but he also needed to talk about it lest he spend days secretly crying over Viktuuri. “I kissed Katsudon.”

Beka said nothing, but the shifting line of his throat told Yuri how much he’d fucked up.

“It was a mistake. I know. I shouldn’t have, but…” Yuri paused, waiting for Beka to fill the silence, but he just looked back at him so passively. He was giving Yuri something—space, room—it was up to Yuri to take advantage. “He’s going to get a gold medal soon. He’s going to reach whatever bar he set himself as being ‘worthy enough’ for Viktor and…”

“And you can’t stop it again, not like in Barcelona.”

Yuri turned away and slumped forward, draping himself over the steel. He let his eyes drift down. The waves were crashing against the rocks, again and again, but it wasn’t enough to block out that memory. 

He could still remember the moment _Allegro Appassionato_ ended. Everyone muscle in his body burned. He was human, too human, and crying on a rink before he forced himself off. Beka had smiled. Lilia, too. _It’s not enough,_ he had wanted to scream, but the words died when he saw Yuuri, standing in the stands, clapping. He couldn’t even bring himself to snarl at _that fucking pig_. _What a waste_ , he had thought, sitting in the Kiss and Cry. But then he saw his name.

He won.

A complete, utter miracle.

“Do you know,” Yuri said slowly, “why I didn’t smile in those photos?”

“Just tell me.”

Yuri licked his lips. “I wanted to win. I wanted to stop Yuuri. But I wanted to do more than win. I wanted to beat Viktor’s record. I wanted to beat Yuuri’s record. I wanted… I wanted to show him that I could be more than he ever was, more than he ever could be with Viktor—and—”

Beka was quiet. The world was quiet. It was a blessing but it hurt. 

“I told myself I’d do better, but then Viktor came back and Yuuri leveled up through the power of true love, or some bullshit, and I was struggling so hard to beat them the rest of the season, but I never could.” He thought of the Russian Nationals Gold. He’d nearly killed himself skating against Viktor, but Viktor was to busy _preparing his life with Yuuri_ to even try. “Not on my own merits. Now they’ll both be retired before my body decides to get its shit together and I’ll be forgotten.”

“Is that why you kissed Yuuri?”

“No.” Yuri breathed deeply. The air smelt like sea salt and rusted steel. He breathed again, catching the scent of old leather. He didn’t realize he and Beka were sitting so closely. “I kissed him because he kept talking about us competing against each other and how that would never stop, even if Viktor retires and… It’s all bullshit, age gets us all, we all fall apart, even if fucking Katsudon seems to defy the rules of physics…” Really, he and Viktor were meant for each other. “Hearing it come out of his mouth… I realized I wanted more than that. I was deluding myself. I don’t want to be just his competitor, but… I can’t be his competitor. I can’t be his lover. I don’t get a choice in it.”

That last part probably hurt the most.

“Yura—”

“It’s fine.”

At that, Yuri felt Beka’s arm, large and warm, sling over his shoulders. His eyes were blurring. Yuri turned and buried his face into Beka’s jacket. “It’s not fine.” Beka’s chest rumbled.

“It will be,” Yuri said firmly. “It has to be.”

 

~*~

 

When they returned, hours later, Mila finally admitted what forced nearly the entirety of Marseille’s senior figure skater population to drink till dawn.

In the time Yuri spent collapsed against Viktor’s door, dreaming of a birthday, of a dream, Viktor Nikiforov announced he would retire after the Olympic Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now that it's out there, all that's left is Yuri dealing with everything and moving on! *nervously laughs* (Note how the chapter count increased)
> 
> Rest of chapter notes [ here. ](http://electronique-brain.tumblr.com/post/155661221005/show-chapter-archive)

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics from Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam's "1000 Times".
> 
> Tumblr [ here. ](http://electronique-brain.tumblr.com)


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